Hatred
by Jubalii
Summary: She hates him, for all the right reasons. At least, that's what she tells herself.


She hates him.

She tells the Storyteller this, but the old man doesn't listen to her. It was folly to think he would—when he has he ever taken her opinion into account? She is his lackey, driven by a guilt she doesn't quite understand, a guilt that wakes her up screaming and sweating in the night without any clue as to why, a guilt that keeps her saying 'just once more' to herself every time he gives her a new, ridiculous task to complete.

The only other person she can complain to is her father, but while he listens, he doesn't hear. He sips the tea she always offers on these secret visits, but he stares blankly over his cup and his drawn face grows paler by the day. It's as though he's wasting away, leaving behind a pale shadow that creeps about the lonely old house long after he's back behind the city walls. It hurts to see him so distant; unlike Espella, her memories are still full of warm images, of her parents' happiness and love, of how she would proudly declare to anyone that she was her father's daughter. Now, those words feel like hollow lies; she is _not_ her father's daughter. It is as if he's a stranger: she no longer knows him. The gulf only grows every time he insists that nothing is wrong, the smile no longer reaching his eyes.

The fact remains the same: she hates him. She hates his hair, a seemingly visible metaphor of his flaming temper. He's the first one to ever raise his voice back to her, the first knight to toe out of line and square off to her, forcing her to look up when he draws himself to full height. Why the Storyteller thought he could ever be of use was beyond her—she had tried being gentle, saying that she needed no help in the office, but the man was shouldered in without any thought given to _her_ feelings and now they wouldn't throw him back out again, nor would they give any clear reason as to why he had to stay.

She hates him because he's good at his job. He's not stupid; he finds out what's expected of him, forms his own borders, and then throws himself headfirst into the fray with a zealous passion that she had never seen before. But she finds out that he's as much a bleating sheep as the rest, accepting the lies fed to him without a single blink. If he does hear something that doesn't add up to what he knows, he thinks in corners around it instead of stepping back to look at the bigger picture. She knows, after a mere three weeks on the job, that he's more than capable of turning their entire project on its head. He's almost too intelligent to be kept in the dark.

But he keeps himself in the dark and it makes her hate him even more, because for a split-second she almost believed that he could really help.

* * *

She hates him because he cares.

It's true, he's eager to see the gilded surface of a utopian Labyrinthia, ignoring the rotten stench of slowly putrefying intentions lurking just beneath. But it's not just for his own gain. He truly cares about the people of the town and their welfare. He suffers through the dark chapters of their Story, and rejoices with happiness when things turn out well. She watches him as he goes about town, letting the children climb over his metal-clad form like a moving jungle gym, flirting innocently with the women and laughing jovially with the men. He's integrated himself among them in a way that she never could, never _would_ be able to. It makes his job easier, as they're more willing to talk to him when trouble arises.

It makes his job harder, too. She watches his first performance in Court, a hood hiding her features and making it too easy to blend in with the crowds. Even if she does hate him with a passion, she is still concerned. A poor performance will make her look bad—she's supposed to be training him properly, and the Storyteller is depending on her. She would rather not be forced to listen to him if things go sour.

But she need not worry: he plays to the audience, saving an expression of stone for the accused once he publicly wrings the guilt from her. She's an old granny, well-liked by everyone, who had hid her 'power' well throughout her life. She knows that the inquisitor often helped this woman with various tasks: mending a broken fence, helping her with large packages, even giving her his cloak on a blustery morning. It must wrench his heart to cosign her to death.

She watches him closely, thoroughly disgusted at the odd eagerness she feels, the curiosity bubbling within as she wonders what he must be thinking, _feeling_. It's morbid, but perhaps she only feels this way because she knows that the accused will never really perish from the flames. She already had an easy, light task prepared for the elderly lady. Her life as a Shade will be infinitely easier than her life as a townswoman—she will have others to chop wood, draw water, and cook meals.

He overlooks blatant evidence, evidence that might spell doubt and freedom for the accused. A stirring of anger pulls at her while she watches, biting at her lip as she keeps her gaze trained on his face. It is nothing she _wouldn't_ do, per say, but… she realizes, suddenly, what a parent must feel like when watching their child make mistakes while knowing better. Helpless, irritated, and yet— _he must learn_. He will learn, if she had any say in it. Already, a small seed of a plan is buried in the back of her mind, and she nurtures it in hopes that a grand scheme will be born. She hates him, but not enough to keep them all stuck in a town of lies.

When the trial is over and the judge has his say, a cheer erupts through the domed room as the accused is sentenced to immolation. Revulsion runs through her as the people around her, good people, eagerly scream for the death of an old woman. An old woman who has to be helped up the stairs to the cage, who doesn't let a sliver of fear or despair shake her tranquil face even as the quiet sobbing of her children and grandchildren are drowned out by the ferocious bedlam.

She hates him, but his saving grace is that he winces when the first of the flames leap from the hellish pit towards the sky. The doomed soul is surrounded in a fiery embrace, but he turns instead towards the shadows flickering along the walls. The people, perhaps sensing that he needs encouragement, begin to chant his name in unison and he looks around at the darkened gallery with wide eyes. She stands and slips away, knowing that the Shades will be looking for their mistress. She turns her back on the new inquisitor, leaving him to his overwhelming acceptance.

She knows it's only a matter of time before that cringe will diminish.

* * *

She hates him, because she can no longer tell if he's a hindrance or a help.

She was doing perfectly well before him, and even now she resents that the Storyteller made her share her office space. He's turned her once-beautiful den of an organized workspace into a disgusting hovel better suited for the garrison. It becomes so bad that she insists they break the room into two halves, one for him and one for her. Her side is neat, orderly, with a place for everything and room for modest decoration to suit. Her uniform has a stand, and she's managed to get her favorite painting hung on the wall behind the desk. Hisspace, on the other hand, is a veritable eyesore. This isn't the difference in sexes—even the Storyteller and her father don't keep things in such disarray. This is just _him_.

She can barely see his head half the time for the papers piled up in crumbling mountains, which would be a blessing if he would just keep them in better order. Any time she asks for a report, at least three minor earthquakes have to happen before he can pull a crumpled sheet from the remains of what was once a second Kilimanjaro. When they grow tall enough that a breeze of wind scatters them easily, he simply puts something heavier on top to hold them all down.

At first she just banishes him to the cold corner of the office, so that she might have some semblance of cleanliness that his grimy, calloused fingers can't ruin. Then, on advice from the Storyteller that she halfheartedly takes, she tries to help him stay organized. She lets him use her corkboard, putting it up over his desk, and shows him how to keep his notes in neat order by pinning them there. He's hesitant at first, but then she walks in one day to find the board covered as haphazardly as the desk, save for one corner where an image of him with a little white dog is carefully placed in a seat of honor.

She rolls her eyes and gives it up, making sure that he knows any report turned into her has to be in pristine condition. And, as the years pass, he learns to separate the notes and reports so that the latter only crumples a bit at the corners. He bangs and clangs at the desk so often that it chips and breaks, the heavy weights at the corners serving less as paperweights and more to keep the entire structure standing. He manages to get a stand for his own uniform after she complains about his armor being left to lie wherever.

But still, there are some things he cannot help, and these are the things that drive her insane. She hates him coming into work after training in the garrison, bringing a stale odor of sweat and men that permeates the room in no time flat. She hates him doing things his own way, a way that is not at all like her way, and then she hates him when it works out just as well in the end. His way is messy, scatterbrained, loud and annoying. She hates constantly having to remind him that reports are due, that follow-ups are necessary to document, that anything he scrimps on makes it twice as hard on her. And even if he did turn his paperwork in on time, he's always shoving people up against the walls, and his interrogations echo through the dungeons until she can hear them even with the door closed.

"You'll grow used to him with time," the Storyteller claims, his eyes never leaving the leather-bound volume he's taken to keeping with him around the clock. "And isn't having help around the office better? After all, you have more free time now."

 _No_ , she wants to protest, _I hate_ _ **him**_. He looks like a plucked bird with his gaudy plumed helmet, riding in the Parade with dozens of shouting admirers. Every time she sees him, she wants to throw the Story and knock the helmet off his fat head. Even if he were less of a hassle, even if she didn't have to run around fixing his messes and checking his work, even if he made her life easier rather than harder, she still wouldn't want _him_ to be her workmate. Anyone else, but not him.

He has a way of getting beneath her skin with nothing more than a raised eyebrow, or even a breath let out in _just_ the right way, letting her know that he disagrees with her. He still stands up to her, arguing about this and that until she fantasizes about throwing him in the dungeons, or even making him a Shade out of sheer spite. But it wouldn't work—the dungeons wouldn't damper his fiery spirits in the least, and even as a Shade he'd find some way of crossing swords with her.

She hates him because he is the only one who's managed to work his way into her life by pure willpower. No longer do his days in court disgust her—rather, they have become a testament to his intelligence and sharp wit. She is constantly surprised by how quickly he learns, molding his mindset in order to adapt to any situation, and comes out on top. He no longer cringes when metal meets flame, but neither does he seem self-righteous or triumphant. Instead, he always wears a somber expression. He also seems to be oblivious to his popularity around town. He is down to earth and genuinely likable, and she hates him all the more for it.

She hates him for being observant. His eyes are like a falcon's, narrowing in on her and watching carefully when they're in the office together. Those are the eyes that pick out the accused's weaknesses and work against them. He's grasping all too often at the wrong straws, but in the shielded eyes of the town he's doing nothing but the right thing. She doesn't want to face what might happen should he find _her_ weaknesses. He's witty and can pick apart even the toughest of conversations: it would be nothing for him to hone on something she let slip in error.

Oh yes, she'd definitely hate him even more if he were a Shade.

* * *

She hates him because he's too kind.

Her mind, fogged with a senseless grief, refuses to work with her normal efficiency. The Storyteller wouldn't let her see the body until it was cleaned for burial and placed in its carefully-crafted casket. There, he left her alone in the room to grieve, but she could not weep. Her tears had dried up in the Legendary Fire, and she could only look at the drawn, worried face with a despair that wracked every limb.

They bury him with a quiet ceremony, and she has to leave with the others. The High Inquisitor Darklaw had no real ties to the alchemist, not like the butler that they left standing, forlorn, at the gravesite. She wanders aimlessly through the town that evening, staring without seeing, hearing without listening, until she finds herself in front of the Courthouse. Her feet must have taken the path by habit, for she has no real reason to be here. She stares up at the building, trying to find answers in the weathered brick.

 _Why. Why?_ Why had it been him? Who had he angered? Which one of these so-called witches could it have been? Would her Shades even know? They had to know, didn't they? If someone had really cast that spell, then they would have been there. If ordered to kill her father, would one of them have done it? Her body felt as though it were plunged into ice, and the world spun until she was dizzy, but she noticed it secondhand. She'd have to question them, but did she want to know? What if she couldn't control herself and flew at the Shade? They trusted her as their mistress, and she never mistreated them. But what could she do against one that committed cold-blooded murder?

There was a voice close by, but the countless whirlwinds inside her mind—thoughts that wouldn't cease, memories that wouldn't be pushed back—refused to let her concentrate. The world dipped again, and when she came about she was reclined on a seat. She looked about wearily, recognizing the alcove adjacent to the Audience Room where she often met with the Storyteller. A long, shuddering exhale escaped her lips, and with it went all her strength. Lying alone with her emotions, she felt a throbbing start near her temple. Still, she could not weep. As truly awful as she felt, the tears would not come.

The Storyteller appeared, holding a steaming cup in his hands. She stared at him, wondering why he was here. She thought he'd said that he planned to remain in his tower after the funeral. As she stared up at him, a heated fury unlike any she ever knew before swept through her, temporarily burning her pain away.

It was _his_ fault—his damned Story had allowed someone to murder the last family she had left. A furious mixture of anger and grief tore at her insides; he cared for no one but himself, hiding away like a hermit and writing meaningless stories that made the townspeople frightened of innocent young ladies. Who would be next? When would it end? It _had_ to end at some point, didn't it?! How could he not see the pain he was causing everyone? That he was causing _her_!?

"Eve, are you alright?" His voice was a whisper, just audible enough that by reading his lips she could make the gist of it. Her heart lurched—her father was the only one to call her Eve after Labyrinthia was founded, and now she would never hear him say her name again. What was the last thing she'd said to him? They hadn't spoken in months. How many years had it been since she told him that she loved him? The last time he'd jokingly caressed her hair and called her 'his daughter', she'd shrugged him off in irritation. Now, she'd never be able to say it again, or hear him say it to her.

"Lady Darklaw, you need to drink this," he said in an entirely different tone. He looked down at her, his stone mask of an unyielding ruler firmly in place. The tender eyes of Mr. Cantabella were lost in the façade, and if they were alone she'd have smacked the cup from his hands.

"What are you giving her?" A voice came from the archway behind the seat and she struggled to sit up, her head protesting with nearly violent throbs that took her breath away. The Storyteller's hand pushed her back down needlessly, as she was already sinking into the cushions. She put her hand to her head and felt a tender spot gingerly with her fingers, trying to piece together the gap between the alcove and whatever came before. She'd been at the Courthouse, hadn't she?

"'Tis an herbal concoction, nothing more." She stared uncomprehendingly at him. "Do not concern yourself needlessly, Sir Barnham. Our High Inquisitor is not ill, only exhausted. A good night's rest is the best cure for these cases." He offered the cup again and she took it reluctantly, but did not drink. He watched her a moment before clearing his throat. "You've been working too hard," he chided, as if he didn't know the real reason of her current state. "You're lucky that Inquisitor Barnham caught you before you dashed your brains out on the stairs, you fainted so quickly."

"But—how—"

"He carried you all the way here." The Storyteller turned away. "Since there's no longer a place to get medicaments, he thought it would be easier if I wrote your health into the Story. Thankfully, it's not as serious as he first feared."

"Forgive me," he said, coming around the seat for the first time. He was still dressed in his armor, his mussed hair the only thing out of place. She looked at him, wondering how he could carry both the heavy armor _and_ her. She didn't like to think of being in his arms like some invalid, and hastily took a sip of the bitter drink. It burned the back of her throat, but as her insides warmed she felt a little better. "I tried to catch you, but you still bumped your head against one of the stairs. Does it hurt?" Genuine concern shone from his eyes, and something inside of her twisted in a not-quite-painful way.

"No." She cleared her throat and took another, slower sip. "I'm fine, thank you." She realizes that he cares for her the same way he cares for the rest of the townsfolk, whether she wants him to or not. Perhaps more. After all, would he have personally carried just anyone to the Storyteller? She doesn't know. She hopes so, because otherwise it would mean he cares _more_ for her than he does the others, and that doesn't sit well with her.

He's growing too close.

* * *

It's all too easy to pretend her planning and plotting is simply part of her personal investigation into the bell tower odd appearance. She's got her own agenda and barely pays any attention to him, trying to distance herself. He says nothing, just keeps watching her with those damned falcon eyes that see everything and nothing in the same blink. He rests more easily after time along with the rest of the town, breathing a sigh of relief. If the High Inquisitor is looking into it, it will be taken care of. She may not be well liked, but she is revered and trusted. She will not let them down.

She ignores him as much as she can, trying to remain unapproachable and aloof. She doesn't need an excuse to start liking him, or at the very least to stop hating him. She even throws the brunt of the witch cases on him, but he takes this in stride. There are times that he impresses her enough that it's very hard to dislike him, even a little, but a quarrel always comes soon after and they go their separate ways, angry at the other.

As time passes, a curious change comes over her. She hates for different reasons than the first when she met him years ago. In the weeks following her father's death, she realizes that she hates his smiles, all of them: the smug one that's reserved for Court, the toothy one that's for joking around, the guarded one that's for the Storyteller, the crooked, close-lipped one that's purely genuine. She hates the way he runs his hands through his hair when he's puzzled or stressed, making the strands stick out in all directions and giving her ideas to how thick they might be. She hates the way he works out while filing his reports, writing with one hand and flexing with the other, muscles moving in perfect sync. She hates how tall he is, where she has to look up at him unless wearing her highest boots.

He asks her, one day, if he can bring Constantine to work with him. He assures her that he'll stay out of the way and won't cause any trouble, and it would only be for a few hours while they're cleaning the garrison stables. She wracks her mind for a villager to put a face to the name, but comes up blank. Still, she's heard him speak of Constantine before, and she assumes from his words that he's a young knight in training. As long as he remained quiet, she can find no reason he can't show a youth the ropes of an inquisitor. But, of course, she didn't need just any boy wandering the halls; he'd have to look and act like a knight while he was there.

"As long as he dresses the part," she advises, giving her permission with her usual cold demeanor. A part of her hates him for making her want to speak on friendlier terms with him; since the day he carried her to the Storyteller, she can't help but feel that he's almost trying _too_ hard to be her friend. She has no friends, and the part of her that's still Eve Belduke _wants_ friends, and would probably enjoy having him as an acquaintance. But she is the High Inquisitor, he her subordinate, and there can be no amicable ties between them. Not now, when her plan for vengeance is already far underway.

The next day, she comes in expecting two men and instead finds the fluffball from the picture still tacked up on her cork. He growls and races towards her, claws clicking against the floor, but she glares sternly enough that he falters. Then, she realizes what he's wearing and it's enough to throw her for a loop. This puppy—for that's what it had to be, it was so small—is wearing a knight's helmet!

"What is this mutt doing here?!" she manages to stammer, still locking eyes with the walking lint.

"You said he could come." He picks him up in one fell swoop, holding the dog expertly with one hand. Its tail wags happily. "Constantine, you must be respectful to the High Inquisitor, do you understand? You cannot play with her like you do the knights at home, for she is a _lady_." He speaks as sternly to it as he would a child, and she wonders if he truly believes that the mutt understands.

"But what is he wearing?" she asks, feeling tired even though it's only a quarter past eight o' clock. He looks down at the dog, then up at her, and to her surprise he turns a faint shade of pink.

"You did say he had to dress the part," he murmurs. "Tis a toy helmet I found perchance one day." The absurdity of it all finally sinks in, and before she can stop herself she's laughing, and laughing, and laughing. It's not her usual cold chuckle, but real laughter, and before she knows it he's laughing with her and they're sharing some stupid moment while the dog wags its tail between them and barks. She can't remember the last time she laughed so much; not since she was the High Inquisitor, for sure. It makes it harder to push Eve back into her place and pull up Darklaw, to make her face stern and eyes piercing.

"The first mess he makes in this room, he's gone."

"O-of course!" Just like that they're back again, two inquisitors at work, not two almost-friends laughing about a puppy in a knight's helmet. "He's very well trained and well behaved. You won't even know that he's here." And to his credit, he was right. As she sits down at her desk, she declares to herself that she hates him for bringing the laughter out of her, for making her feel something other than anger and the burning need to turn this town on its head and make them face the lies they try to run from.

But for the first time, she wonders if she truly means it.

* * *

She hates him because he dares to suspect her.

It's really the baker man's fault, him and his annoying little ball of energy that calls herself an ace assistant. She hadn't planned for them, but when they found Espella's book and one of the Shades had panicked, she had let them come into Labyrinthia and made them bakers. They had, after all, watched over Espella far better than she could have ever dreamed. She'd been prepared to plea out and pay the daughter's way with the daddy's money, but they had been able to prove without a shadow of a doubt that Espella wasn't the culprit.

That baker man had turned her best inquisitor on his head in a way she never could, along with Professor Hershel Layton and his odd child sidekick. They _had_ been part of her plan, thankfully, though she had to admit that she'd never expected them to be such a hassle in retrieving from London. They'd introduced him to logic that defies magic, made him open his eyes and see the world for what it really was, but now he suspects her instead of the Storyteller.

Rather, he suspects _something_ , but duty and obligation keep him in his rightful place beneath her thumb. . She spent a good deal of effort hammering proper workplace hierarchy into his lump of a brain, and it seems to have paid off. He only watches and waits for her to slip up, his eyes as careful as ever, but she merely laughs in secret. She's had years of practice dancing circles around him, and she hasn't slipped up once. It will be much harder than that to get the answer from her. He will not find _her_ out so easily, despite whatever he might think.

She gets used to the feeling of being watched. He watches her around town, hiding in shadows and gliding seamlessly between places as she goes about her day. He watches her in the Parade as best he can, and she knows he wonders now what her true nature is. He's partook of her false happiness as the Storyteller's helper in the Parade, her cold exterior as the High Inquisitor Darklaw, her laughter as Eve. The only one he's never seen has been the Great Witch, but expects that will remedy itself in due time. After all, he's not so stupid as to leave well enough alone. He will find a way to learn the truth, if he truly wants to know.

And yet, while the foreigners go about Labyrinthia searching for their own answers, he remains in place. She hates him now for suspecting her and doing nothing about it. Always he remains respectful and careful around her, as if he doesn't think she can feel his eyes on her. As the months roll by, it stops becoming a hierarchy issue. He lacks resolve. Even if he _did_ find something about her, would he go through with his plans? She doubts it, she doubts _him,_ and it fuels her hatred.

It's only after her Shades tell her that he's been lurking about the forest that she feels the same thrill she once felt while watching him persecute his first accused. She hates even more that she can no longer feign disinterest about him. She almost _wants_ to slip up, just to see what he'd do when he found out that she was, in fact, the Great Witch. Not Bezella, mind, but just the witch. Better yet, _a_ witch. A witch who he's learned to care for as a fellow person in arms, and perhaps as a friend.

Her respect for him hangs in the balance. She hates the respect, too.

* * *

She hates his silence. He, who is always loud and boisterous, his passion for life overflowing into every aspect of it. But now he is silent as he walks, flanked by guards, to the Courthouse dungeons. She makes them stay in the corridor while she leads him to the furthest cell. She doesn't look at him until she shuts the door and bolts it.

He stands just on the other side, his face revealing a thousand things. She's hurt him, she realizes, she's broken his trust in her and then rubbed his face in the dirt for good measure while he was down. She's said more than enough without saying anything, and yet he doesn't shout that she's a witch, that she's been deceiving them all, that he's not the one who should be locked away, but her. He just stares straight into her eyes, and for the first time she wonder just how far down he can see. Can he see past her icy expression, down to the true self beneath? Is that what he's really been searching for this entire time?

Her fingers twitch and she wants to put her hand through the bars and—what? Slap the scar off his brow? Touch his skin with her bare hands so that he can feel the cold hatred seeping from her, as it must be doing? As she watches, his fingers slowly slide up one of the bars, his eyes never straying from hers. He takes a step closer, looks down the hall to where the men are waiting, and then regards her once more.

"Do you not have a trial to go to?" he says in a voice eerily like hers, devoid of the warmth she's come to expect from him. It cuts her to the core, sending a bolt of pain right through to her stomach and making her strangely queasy. _He will never forgive you for this_. She's lost the one chance she might have had at friendship. This is an irreparable damage, and they both know it.

"Yes." She forces herself away from the door, back down the hall, even as something inside of her pleads to turn around, to try and explain that it wasn't ever _him_ she meant to hurt, even if she did—no, does—hate him. It would be folly; no amount of apologizing can ever bridge what she has just broken. She walks straight ahead, ignoring the sound of his fist hitting the stone wall. She whispers any apology she might have given him to her own mind instead.

 _I'm so sorry, Zacharias Barnham. But this is how it must be._

* * *

She hates him for hearing her out.

When all was said and done, she nearly forgot that she'd ordered him to be locked away in the dungeons. The dawn shone down upon them all, and she looked around habitually for the bright red hair and found nothing. Startled, she forced her way out of the machine's mouth and to the Storyteller, telling him in hushed undertones where to find him.

She somehow managed to detangle herself from the crowds, losing Espella and her new friends as she dipped into the shadows and ducked through the woods, using an old shortcut to reach the Courthouse at the same time the Storyteller and knights did. She waited for what felt like hours as they went inside, her body pressed against a gnarled tree. She wasn't quite sure what she was waiting for, and she was more than exhausted, her entire body screaming for sleep and a reprieve from the emotions of the evening. But she still waited, because she had to see him. Had to see what he would do, hear what he might say.

He came out of the door first, running both hands through his hair and too far away for her to hear whatever was pouring from his mouth, though the occasional word filtered across the clearing to her. He didn't believe them, not one bit. The knights filed out after him, all of them clamoring over one another as they tried to fill him in on all the secrets that had been revealed about Labyrinthia. Mr. Cantabella stood on the steps, listening with a new weariness evident in his stance, his hand clutching his side.

He turned, shaking himself free of the knights and striding back up to the stairs. He spoke in hushed, yet obviously heated tones to the man whom he thought literally wrote the stars into the heavens. The Storyteller nodded, speaking shortly before motioning to the town, where she could knew they could all see the machinery towering over the walls and houses. He stared a moment, looked at them all, turned on his heel and crashed through the underbrush, quite lost to them. The knights looked at each other as if trying to decide who should follow, but their former leader stopped them with a wave of the hand and shake of the head. She didn't have to hear him in order to know what he was saying: _Leave him alone. Give him time._

She watched them head back towards town, making sure they were all well and gone before leaving her hiding place and coming to stand at the stairs of the Courthouse. Looking up the same way she had the day they buried her father, she wondered if he would catch her this time should she faint. Sighing, she sat on the third step, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around her.

Her body begged for rest, but her mind was still awhirl. Nothing had gone the way she had planned it; she had messed up, and good. And… in the end, she'd realized the guilt she'd carried was for herself, not for Espella. She'd been the one to…. She hugged her knees closer, wishing that her father were here. She didn't want the Cantabellas reassuring her. She wanted her father's words, and she couldn't have them now. Rubbing her neck, she rested her chin on her knees and looked out at the clearing, muddy from the rain. It had all gone to hell, and it was her fault.

Didn't she deserve to be friendless and alone now? She shouldn't celebrate with the town, shouldn't be happy with the reunited bond between Espella and her father. She ought to be the one lowered into the flames. How could she let her anger carry her this far? She'd done far worse than reveal the secrets of the town—she'd alienated herself from those who had cared about her, and nearly caused a girl to commit suicide! Not to mention her father…. She shut her eyes, blocking the thought before it came. She wouldn't think about that; even if it did provide some relief that he hadn't been murdered, it brought _more_ pain, because she still didn't understand why.

She didn't realize she had fallen asleep until a sound awoke her. She shivered, the dew having fallen on her in the course of the morning and making her High Inquisitor uniform damp. Rubbing her eyes, staring up at the sun peeking from behind low clouds, she looked straight across the clearing and into the eyes of the man she'd jailed the night before. He froze, she froze, and then eyed one another before he reluctantly turned away.

"I was just—heading—" he pointed vaguely towards town, then back at the Courthouse, then looked at her and away just as quickly. "I've been walking. They let me out at dawn." He rubbed the back of his head, his hair standing all over the place and looking absolutely wild. "I didn't mean to bother you." His voice was resigned and sounded about as tired as she felt. She was sure he didn't get any sleep the night before, either.

"Zacharias, I—" She stood, prepared to go offer him an apology even though she knew he wouldn't take it. She didn't deserve for him to listen to her, but it had to be said for her own peace of mind. She walked three steps, stood with her boots in the mud and her hair a mess from falling off the tower, and then forced herself to meet his eyes. "I—I—" There was a choked sound that she didn't fully recognize as coming from her own throat, and then without warning tears spilled from her eyes, dripping off her chin and staining her cheeks. "I—" She still tried to salvage the apology, ashamed of crying in front of anyone, especially him.

"I'm sorry!" The words burst out and she buried her face in her hands, mortified beyond belief but unable to stop crying. Finally, the tears that she'd held back since the Legendary Fire all came forth at once in a series of wrenching sobs, salty water on her uniform, in her mouth, all over her nose and cheeks as she felt the weight of the High Inquisitor's burden finally lift from her shoulders. She hoped beyond hopes that he would just go away and leave her alone in the clearing, but she froze when warm arms wrapped around her in an almost professional way, not intimate and yet not cold either.

There was just enough tenderness in the touch that she fell into a new wave of tears, this time against his shoulder as she sagged her full weight onto him. He held her up easily, and after a moment his chin rested almost shyly on her head as he patted her back in a forceful, yet clearly comforting manner. His armor was cool and felt fresh against her flushed face, tears sliding down the polished surface easily and surprisingly not as bulky as she thought it would be.

"I am—sorry—I didn't—It wasn't supposed—"She tried to explain around her tears, but nothing came out the way she wanted and after a while she just gave up. He never said a word, but instead held her quietly, patiently, until her sobbing trailed off into hiccups, then sniffles, then silence. Even when it grew awkward and she tried to subtly push away, he held on a moment more, his arms tightening as if wanting to push her flush against him before letting go and stepping away. There was a red spot on his chin where it had sat against her head for too long, but his face was a mask of quiet calm as he stared at her. She wiped her eyes the best she could, sniffing and praying that her nose hadn't run enough to let snot drip down with the tears. She took a deep breath and looked at him, her cheeks burning hot with humiliation and guilt.

"I never meant for things to end up like this," she whispered with all the sincerity she could muster. "I don't expect your forgiveness. I understand." He nodded, once, and she turned away to better compose herself.

"I forgive you."

Again her limbs are ice, the words taking a moment to sink in. She looked over her shoulder at him, still standing in the same spot, still with the mask replacing his usually vigorous features. "I do," he insists, and she knows that its true. She wonders, then, if his respect and regard for her overpower even throwing him in a dungeon. If that was the true reason he didn't call out to the others.

She tries to hate him, for giving her the forgiveness she doesn't deserve, but she can't. She's just too tired.

* * *

The professor left, the attorney left, and Labyrinthia continued to grow. A whole new slew of phrases came now, sprinkled with a natural curiosity. For now, most of the grown folk had two people inside them: the person that belonged wholeheartedly to Labyrinthia, and the person they'd left behind. The former they knew all too well, the latter was a mystery they were slowly solving day by day. The most common phrase was 'I do believe'.

"I do believe I've always loved working with children," Ms. Primstone told the former Judge as she watched the little ones play on the playground outside of the primary school. As strict as she was, she truly did care for each and every one of them and their welfare was her top priority.

"I do believe I've always enjoyed sculpting," Cutter said to Rouge as he worked. "I might have been one of those—what do they call them?—starving artists."

"You'll _be_ starving if you don't sweep those shavings off the floor," she advised him with a twirl of her dagger.

"I do believe I've always liked machines," Barnham told her one day, as he fiddled with the controls on a steamroller. "Listen to the sound it makes." She had to agree; he always looked like a little kid whenever she or the Storyteller found him a new thing to tinker with. First the boat, then the crane, the steamroller, the digger, and even a lawn mower that had nearly ran Mary's goats out of a job before they decided it was to be used on the Square only.

"Yes, I hear it," she called back to him over the dull roaring of the engine. On all of them, he made her climb up beside him so that they didn't have to scream and wave at each other when working. It was easier for them to look out at the same vantage point so that any modifications to their reconstruction plans could be agreed upon in the moment. She didn't enjoy the loud machines that made her ears ring and belched smoke up into her face, she never had. That was what Shades were for, after all. But it was fun sometimes, riding high above everyone else's heads and getting a rush of adrenaline whenever they went over a particularly large bump.

It was dangerous, as the seats were only made for one person and she often had to stand and hold onto what she could, but whenever she stumbled he was always there to catch her with a sturdy hand on her arm or around her waist. The first time they'd actually touched, without the barrier of gloves or armor between their hands, such a thrill had went through her! And it had nothing to do with the near fall. It had frightened her much more than breaking her head open on the cobblestones ever would.

She noticed that she was still being watched, his eyes following her long out of sight whenever they left the Courthouse for home and parted ways at the crossroads, her to her house and him to the bakery, where he lived for some odd reason of his own. Espella knew but wouldn't tell, only giving an annoying shrug whenever the subject was brought up. Mrs. Eclaire—she couldn't bring herself to call her Aunt Patty, no matter how much the woman insisted upon it—was harder to find out. She might know, she might not.

Any animosity left over from that last awful night was forgotten, or at the least never spoken about. Whatever had passed between them the next day, when she'd cried onto his breastplate and he'd offered his forgiveness, had been more than enough for the both of them. And, as the months passed, she learned how to open up more.

Nothing _had_ to be a secret; now it could be her personal preference to share or to hide her doings. Eve wiggled more and more out of her space, forcing back the Great Witch, the cold Darklaw, until they were shadows that arose to protect her during moments when she was angry, embarrassed, or scared. When she was happy, she could _be_ happy.

It was such a relief, and before she knew it she had amassed a small group of friends. Espella quickly became her closest friend, but Barnham knew her in different ways. He guessed more easily than Espella how she was feeling, what she was thinking. He watched her carefully, and even as subtle as he tried to be she noticed how he crept closer and closer, stood first side to side, then shoulder to shoulder, then dragging her up onto a bulldozer by the hips or slinging an arm around her shoulders in a manner the same as he treated the tavern owner.

She knew it meant he was comfortable with her, but at the same time there was a tension she didn't quite understand. He might hold on too long, or their faces come too close, or her fingers squeeze a little too tightly when he was yanking her back onto the crane for the fifth time that day. Then they were caught in a space all their own, no one noticing the heavier air or the quick movements as they rushed to separate. She found herself blushing at odd times, distracted by the broad length of his shoulders as he pushed levers or the feeling of his hair tickling her arm when he swung around to reverse. She found him the same way, looking up just in time to catch flushing cheeks as he averted his eyes.

She thought she hated his smiles, but there was one special one he reserved just for her that she found just a little charming. She still hated the way he'd mess up his hair, but only because it always reminded her of how thick it must be and how she wanted to be bold enough to reach out and touch it. She'd grown so used to his messy paperwork that it didn't bother her anymore. But whenever she started to really think about it, she had to remind herself that she was supposed to dislike him immensely because he'd been forced onto her by the Storyteller. Besides, she didn't like the feeling of change that hung around him lately, because she didn't want _anything_ to change between them.

She'd just now gotten a friend, and if something changed, he might not be a friend any longer.

* * *

An éclair. He'd made her stand for an hour in the cold office… for an éclair. She looked down at it, and the expression on his face when he'd seen her reaction almost sickened her. He looked crestfallen, and she knew it was because he really had worked hard on it for her, but things just hadn't turned out the way he planned. She knew the feeling all too well.

The others had laughed it off and they'd all had a good time at the Bezella pageant, though half the participants had been men, which was incredibly odd. It wasn't until she had gotten home and seen her presents that she remembered the words spoken by Espella earlier.

"Luke said at the bakery that he thought Sir Barnham had a soft spot for you!" She'd said it while giggling at the face Phoenix Wright was making as he tried (a bit unsuccessfully) to be a British teenage girl screaming that was Bezella. But it struck a chord within her, and now the words would not leave her mind no matter how hard she tried.

In bed. _A soft spot for you._ Washing her face in the morning. _A soft spot._ Walking to town. _For you._ Then he was there, smiling down at her as he waited for her at the crossroads. _A soft spot. For you._ She tasted the éclair on her tongue, though she'd eaten it last night and had brushed her teeth several times since then. Her heart thudded against her breast. _For… me?_

"Good morrow!" he cheerfully called to her when she approached. "Ready for another sunny day? Looks like there'll be cloudless skies." He shielded his eyes with his hand, and she stared up into his face. _No. Not for me._ Luke had to have been mistaken. Now that her birthday was over, he was the same as ever. Whatever had possessed him to stand for an hour—an _hour_ —in the office the day before was gone now.

"Yes, are you?" she teased, smiling to hide the sudden pang in her chest that came from nowhere. She hoped her breakfast wasn't trying to give her indigestion. "I saw you drinking quite a lot at the festival." They moved into step and he swung his arms, laughing.

"'Twasn't ale, to be fair." He gave her one of his special grins. "That daft fool leader of the Vigilantes bet me twenty quid that I couldn't down more tomato juice than he could. I had the man throwing up by the end of the night and Rouge knocked us both onto the streets before dawn."

"That much… tomato juice?" She couldn't keep the alarm from her voice. He laughed again. "Will you be alright?" He threw an arm around her shoulders and she forced herself to keep in step, the pang coming more sharply. _Soft spot..._ She hated him for being so casual with her, casual enough to make others wonder about something that just wasn't there.

"He hadn't a chance; I've got an iron stomach!"

* * *

The Labyrinthian construction effort was over. The town was beautiful and brand new, the houses all repaired or rebuilt entirely, the machines gone away to be stored on some warehouse site in England. The Shade village was now a proper hamlet just outside of town, for those who wished to live away from the hustle and bustle. Jane Greyerl was now Dr. Greyerl, studying correspondence courses from the mainland in an effort to get an eventual Ph.D. and running a proper medical getup from the alchemist's house. The Courthouse was now a theatre, the Archives a proper library, the garrison the Head of Tourism office.

She watched as the knights tried to pull the old desk out of the room without breaking it, the papers all cleaned off for once. She couldn't understand the lump in her throat. Hadn't she wanted an office all to herself again? She'd argued with Barnham over it, but he'd insisted that since he no longer had any need for an office, he could devote more time to the bakery and she could have more space for her work. She had taken over some of the accounts for Mr. Cantabella's laboratories, working as a CEO / Accountant / All-Purpose Secretary. There were now file cabinets shoved in the corners, a teleconference screen hooked up to a generator, and other useful things that would 'make the room crowded' if his items were in her way.

But even as she agreed—hesitantly at best—that she could always use more room, she didn't know if she actually _wanted_ it. His things going out the door seemed so… final. She watched the stand for his Parade armor leave, the desk leave, Constantine carrying out his latest bone, the dumbbells hoisted up on the shoulders of a young knight, and with each new space she felt her heart sink lower.

"I guess you'll be wanting this back," he said, yanking the board off the wall. It still held things, some that were no longer needed: old memos from the witch trials, that picture of him and his dog, an old drawing of her that he'd once made just to spite her.

"No, you take it." It was _his_ board. It would never be hers again. "I don't need it, not really." He held it in his hands, looking at her in confusion, and she took the time to yank one of the knives out and free her cartoony face from the rest of it. "But don't take this with it," she joked halfheartedly, folding the paper in half.

"I suppose I could always draw another one," he offered slyly. "If you were to anger me again."

"And I suppose I could yell at you just as loudly as I did then, if you were to draw another." He grinned.

"Only if you stab the knife into your forehead once more." She remembered, then, that she _had_ been the one to drive the knife in so deeply that day. He'd never removed it? Suddenly she felt confused and lonely, the memories of this room, _their_ room, pouring over her all at once. She managed to make a strangled sound and shrugged, folding the paper again until it sat neatly in the palm of her hand.

"D-do you want me to help you move anything around?" She looked up and saw the half of the room that used to belong to him as fully empty. She didn't want him to go, but she also had no idea where she wanted anything. The room looked _too_ big now, and she couldn't remember why she had ever thought it small.

"No, I—I'll do it." He gave her a cheerful nod, and she remembered thinking once that she would have rather worked with anyone other than him. She would take it back, now—she'd rather work with him over anyone else in the world, even Espella. She didn't want _him_ to go. "I—I suppose you must come visit, from time to time."

"I shall." He tucked the corkboard beneath his arm so that it would fit through the door. "I'll leave you to get settled, then." She walked to the doorway with him, watching him turn the corner and start up the stairs before closing the door quietly. He never closed the door quietly, but instead with a big bang. A shuddering, muffled bang from above only proved her thoughts as the doors to the Courthouse swung shut behind him.

She walked back slowly to her desk, looking at the bright expanse of floor that was now open for grabs. She sat at her desk, still pushed up beneath her favorite picture, and opened her righthand drawer. Pulling out the documents, she placed them on the desk and then unfolded the caricature on top. Her eyes were mismatched, her teeth were points, her hair accessories more like devils horns. Her face was twisted in a scowl of anger, and she chuckled when she remembered him holding it up and shouting "Tis what you resemble!" across the room at her. That had been quite an anger-fueled day.

She carefully taped the cartoon to the bottom of the drawer, where she could see the drawing when she opened it like some sort of poorly designed papering. Shutting the drawer, she looked again at the empty room and sighed. She hated him for making the decision to leave.

Never had a room felt quite so cold.

* * *

She hates him, because he once made someone think that he had a soft spot for her.

They are friends, but in the last eight months they've drifted. No longer does she see him in the office everyday. Sometimes when she goes to the bakery, he's off with the other men at the tavern, playing darts with whatever weapon they can lay their hands on. Sometimes a full week goes by before they can even stop and say hello to each other. He deals with it as cheerfully as ever, asking her about her new job—which she enjoys—and her larger office—which she still doesn't.

The problem arises in the fact that she has a soft spot for _him_ , one that nearly encompasses her whole heart, and she can't bear it. He thinks of her only as a friend, she's sure. Often enough he scoffs at the idea of romance, of imagined beaus, of subtle hints from Mrs. Eclaire that he ought to be settling down and marrying since he's nearing 26 years. He doesn't have a soft spot, because not once has he even tried to hold her hand. The tension is still there, but it arises rarely and dissipates without either of them blushing or touching the other. She wonders if he still even feels it the way she does.

It tears her apart inside, because every time they come together she's waiting for some spark, some word to show that she's more than a friend. He treats her like Rouge and Espella, like a sister or a close pal, but now he has no excuse to wind his arm around her or grasp her wrist. He still throws his arms over her shoulders if she's close, but he does that even to Mrs. Eclaire. It's just a part of his nature. A part of her always says that it would be better to move on, to find someone else to care for. There are others, former Shades who always thought she was beautiful, who would be more than happy to court her. But she doesn't feel the way about them that she does about _him_ , and it seems unfair to get their hopes up for nothing.

As the months fly by, the town begins to bear down on her. The walls loom above her, and she feels trapped with each passing day. She hates her office, because it's large and spacious, reminding her that he was once there. She hates the bakery, because it is now a symbol of her false hope. She hates the Square, reminded of the festivals where they all laughed and drank and danced as a group, his arms steadily guiding her in a ditzy two-step that was more of a two-stomp. She hates him, because he's the one that made her care _this much_ about him with his touching and smiling and Miss Eves.

Mr. Cantabella notices the change in her, as does Espella. The latter can't possibly understand what is wrong, but the former either sees or assumes enough to understand that she's becoming depressed. She spends less time around her friends, withdrawing with excuses of extra work or headaches. She distances herself from him the most, searching in vain for some sort of balm that will take away the pain she gets from the confusion in his eyes every time she hastily retreats. He never follows, giving her space, and while its what she wants its also something that makes the heartbreak worse.

In the autumn, Mr. Cantabella's CEO finally retires for the sunny shores of the Mediterranean and the post is free. With no one to immediately take his place, he asks her to go for six months to London and try it out, under the guise of being temporary relief. She's technically been his employee for years, though not in a corporate sense, and she knows enough of the job now that it wouldn't be hard to move her office from Labyrinthia to London. And, he explains, if she really likes the job, it wouldn't be a stretch to promote her up to CEO herself when her six months were up.

She thinks long and hard about the offer. While London was a big city and she was still very shy, perhaps it would be the best thing in the end. Getting away from Labyrinthia would be good for her, and she could start over at the corporate headquarters with a new job and new friends. She would still be in close touch with Mr. Cantabella, could talk to Espella on his phone, and after all: if she didn't like it, it was only six months.

They work out the final details of the corporate suite she'll be staying in, leaving most of her belongings behind in her house with Espella looking in from time to time to make sure everything was in order. They decide on her scheduled date, leaving in two weeks to take the bus from the port to London on her own. They finalize things with the headquarters, research benefits, and then break the news to everyone around the bakery table one evening when they all happened to be there.

Espella took it about as well as she would imagine, hiding her tears in her cloak and choking out that she could visit the professor while in London. Mrs. Eclaire congratulated her warmly, and made her promise then and there to write often and not skip meals. She looked at _him_ , staring at her with his fork poised over his plate. He swallowed and smiled at her before saying that he was happy for her, to be moving up to such a prominent position, and that she deserved it for all her hard work.

It was not what she'd wanted him to say.

That first week she could barely get any work done at all. Everyone and their mother stopped into the office and she found herself becoming a broken record. _Yes, I really am leaving. No, it's not forever, it's six months. Yes, it's still working under the Storyteller, and his name is Mr. Cantabella._ Espella came by more often as well, cramming as much time as she could before they were parted. She tried to keep up a pleasant demeanor, but Eve could see how much the loss of her company would affect her friend. She made a promise to herself to call and write often, if only for her sake. Every time she stopped by the bakery, Mrs. Eclaire had written a new recipe for her, or found some old pot and pan that Eve could take to cook with so that she wouldn't go hungry.

Barnham was hardly there at all. She didn't see him but once in the entire two weeks, and even as she told herself that it was the best thing for her, she couldn't help but selfishly drag what should have been a five minute conversation into a fifteen minute one, until they were both standing awkwardly silent and he excused himself. She didn't get a chance to speak to him again, but she did see him around town.

Something had changed about him, but she couldn't outwardly place what it was. He seemed his normal self, still talking with the townsfolk and going about his business with a whistle and a smile. The women still flocked to him, the men still clapped him on the back and Mrs. Eclaire still patted his head with her great mittens whenever he bent over near her, declaring him to be a godsend sweet as sugar. But just as easily as he used to notice her moods, she couldn't help but notice something in his cadence, in the way he held himself, which just wasn't _right_.

It wasn't until the day she left that it dawned on her.

She met him at daybreak in front of the bakery with only a small parcel. Her other luggage had long been sent to the suite ahead of her, and inside was just a few items she'd need on the bus ride and during the day. He was to take her to the docks and drive the boat to the port for her, where she'd catch the first bus to London. The roads were dark, the morning air chilly, but he was ready and waiting outside when she turned the corner.

"Good morrow, Miss Eve," he said civilly, though subdued. She took one look at the bags beneath his eyes and knew that he hadn't had much sleep. He was probably very tired, thus the lack of energy in his greeting. "If you don't mind, I have something to give you before we leave for the docks." He opened the bakery door, which she thought to be locked, and with some confusion she stepped inside behind him.

"What is it?" she asked, but he just nodded her towards the stairs. She followed him up, feeling rather than seeing the emptiness in the home. "Are… Espella and Mrs. Eclaire asleep?"

"They are not here." That surprised her; she had been banking on saying a final farewell to them this morning. "They had urgent business to attend," he added by way of apology. _More urgent than my leaving?_ She thought, but squashed the selfish impulse. The world didn't revolve around her.

She hadn't stepped foot in his room before, but now he opened the door and invited her in. She dipped her head against the sloping ceiling, looking around with interest. The stand from their office stood against the wall, holding his armor. His bed had been built under the window as a partition, with shelves beneath to hold his personal belongings. He had a nightstand and an old trunk shoved in the crack between the roof the floor, the former with a lamp sitting haphazardly near the edge. A small bookshelf held various knickknacks he'd collected over the years as well as two borrowed books from the Archives.

Stepping carefully into the room and holding her bag in front of her so that it wouldn't hit anything accidentally, she saw the board. He'd put it just above the bed, and instead of memos it was now littered with pictures. He was digging around in the nightstand drawer, so she stepped over to look at them, many of which she hadn't seen before. There was a picture of him, Mrs. Eclaire, and Espella in front of the bakery counter; if Espella had red hair, they might have been a mother and her two children. Then a few of knights whose faces she knew but names she didn't, quite a few of Constantine, of Eve (the cat), of Constantine _and_ Eve. A few were sketches, of machines, of buildings, of more cartoony people.

The picture of him and Constantine still took precedence in the right corner, but the left corner was the only other picture not half-covered by something else. It was of them. She stepped even closer, leaning over the bed to look. They stood together, his arm around her shoulders, dragging her in until they were cheek to cheek. They were both staring at the camera, her small, calm smile at odds with his toothiest grin. It had been taken the day of a festival to celebrate everyone's hard work on the reconstruction, but only now did she see that the gray of her bodice matched the color of his eyes, and the purple of his more formal silk tie was almost the same as her hair. It hadn't been planned that way, but when she looked at the picture it seemed as if they'd thought it out beforehand.

But, clothing aside, what stood out to her most was the way the pair of them seemed so… happy. He was clearly holding her tight, but she was pressing her cheek to his without prompting. She remembered now that he'd been making her laugh with his usual jokes before the Storyteller came around with his camera, and that laughter still sparkled in her eyes. She remembered the first time he really made her laugh, standing there in the office on the day she found out who Constantine was. Her heart beat an agonizing rhythm in her chest and she turned away to see him staring at her, waiting calmly.

"Erm—that's a nice picture of us," she said, slightly embarrassed that he'd just stood there while she poured over an old picture of them nosily. It was just… that was the only other picture not covered up. Did he… cherish it?

"I'm glad you like it." He looked sheepishly at the paper in his hands before holding it out. "Actually, 'tis what I meant to give you. I had the Stor—Mr. Cantabella make a liken image of it from the pho-to-cop-yer." He handed her a copy of the photograph and she looked at it, heart twisting again. _Of course. He just recently put it back up. It hasn't had time to be covered yet._

"T-thank you, I—I don't know what to say." She held loosely in her hands, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air.

"I just wanted you to have something to… remember me by. She looked up at him and he smiled. "When you're in London." The smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and she flashed back to her father, sitting in her parlor. _Nothing is wrong._ Was he—was he trying to cover up his own sadness with that smile? _Of course he's sad you're leaving, you're his friend_ , she instantly berated herself. _This is why I'm leaving; I'm reading too far into things._ "Well, are you ready? We really should be heading off."

"Y-yes, of course. Let's go."

The walk to the docks was silent, save for their footsteps and the occasional bird call. She noticed Mr. Cantabella's pet owl hovering over them once or twice, but paid no mind to it. Hoot often flew above the town, and it was not quite his bedtime yet. She put the photograph into her bag, taking a small comfort that it was there. It was a gift from a dear friend, and she resolved to look on it and remember only the good times and not just her own aching heart.

When they passed the gate and started down the docks, she looked up and stopped in her tracks, eyes widening.

"What's—?" Nearly everyone from the town was there, from the lowest knights to the Storyteller and Espella at the front. She stepped forwards, a tight smile on her lips as she held out her hands. "What's this?"

"It's your goodbye party," Espella managed to say, her voice watery. "We kept trying to think of a good day to do it, but nothing ever came out right so we decided to do it before you left."

"Did you really think we'd let you leave without offering a proper sendoff?" This was Rouge, smiling at her with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

"Yeah! What she said! What she said!" the Vigilantes cried, their gauntlets raised towards the heavens.

"I know we never said much about it," Lettie Mailer piped up over their cheering, "but as High Inquisitor you always made our lives so much easier!"

"Others came and went, but you and the Storyteller were always there, from the very beginning." Barnham's voice seemed small, coming from behind her.

"If it weren't for you bringing Professor Layton here, we would all still be living in fear and lies." Mr. Cantabella's eyes also glittered with unshed tears. "You're the reason we were freed, and I can't thank you enough for it."

"What he said! What he said!"

"Quiet you lot!" Boistrum shouted at the top of his lungs. Espella broke down and the tears fell as she wrapped her in a tight hug. Her arms went around the girl—now a young woman, really—letting her cry onto her shoulder.

"Oh, Eve! I'm going to miss you when you're gone! Please promise that you'll come home, even if it's just for a little while!" she wept bitterly, clinging to the jacket of her dove gray suit.

"Of course I will," she assured her quietly, a lump forming in her throat as she looked over Espella's head at the people who cared for her enough to come in the cold air and give her a fond farewell. She hadn't realized exactly how many lives she'd touched until they were all here before her. She'd thought that _Barnham_ was the popular one, the town celebrity. But… they liked her too. She just couldn't wrap her mind around it. Espella was replaced by Mrs. Eclaire, who wrapped her in a tight, warm squeeze that sent her back to her childhood, and her mother's embraces.

"Now remember, you promised you'd eat well," she reminded her, her own voice choking with emotion. "I've made you some banana bread for the road, and some rolls, and some of my best hot buns so you won't have to stop and eat on the bus." The packages were thrust into her hands and by the time she uttered her thanks and put them in into her bag, a line of people formed to shake her hand and wish her well, save for Rouge, who punched her arm.

Even Constantine was at the end of the dock, his beady eyes watching her as he calmly came up and sat before her. She remembered Barnham telling him that he must respect her as a lady, and a smile passed her face before she could stop it. He wasn't a puppy anymore, having grown substantially until he was nearly as large as the dog that had caused the Wild Ride incident. She bent down to pat him on the head, stopping to adjust his kerchief, and silently took back every time she called him a mutt. He was a good dog, and as if he knew what she was thinking, his tongue flicked out and licked her cheek. She rubbed the goodbye kiss away and he padded off to hop into the boat.

"You should get started, I suppose." Mr. Cantabella looked at the sun rising above the waters. "You'll be short on time." He held out a hand and helped her into the boat, squeezing her fingers tenderly. She looked up at him, smiling gently. "Take care, Eve. Call me when you get settled so that we know you're alright."

"I will." He turend to Barnham, who had placed her bag next to Constantine in the back and was fishing for the boat keys.

"You make sure she gets safely to that bus stop before you even think about returning," he warned in an all-too-fatherly manner. Barnham looked shocked and actually scowled.

"As if you would have to remind me!" he exclaimed, and she bit back a laugh. It was just his honor at stake, as usual. "A man of knightly honor would _never_ leave a lady in a dangerous place unattended!"

"See to it," Mr. Cantabella warned again, even more sternly. His eyes flashed as he watched Barnham leap into the boat, rocking it enough that she put out a hand to steady herself. "And be careful yourself!" She turned to look back at the dock as the boat started and he pulled away from the docks. Espella ran to the end, nearly tripping and falling in the icy water as she waved both arms.

"Goodbye! Goodbye!" the entire town's farewells followed them out to sea, and she waved until her arm grew sore and the island was a dot on the horizon. Now that she really was leaving, it was hard to go. She felt the wind whip at her hair, drawing a tear from her eye as she turned back around and sat properly in the passenger seat, shivering from the cold.

"Here." He passed her a thick coat. "It's mine, but you can use it until we get to the docks. The wind is cool this morning." He drove one handed, as one might a vehicle, not really looking at her and yet not looking away. She took it silently, draping it across her lap and resting her arms beneath it.

"Thank you." She watched the waves rush past them, gulls dipping about the boat before soaring high above the clouds. "It was… nice, of everyone. To show up, I mean."

"You meant a lot more to the—to _us_ than you know, Miss Eve." He was quiet, contemplative. "You'll be missed, but… you'll find your way around London in no time. You're intelligent enough to fit in anywhere." He laughed—was it a hollow sound, or was she just imagining things? "You'll find new friends and have forgotten about the lot of us in a fortnight."

"I seriously doubt such a thing could ever happen." He didn't reply, and they lapsed back into silence. She looked down at her lap, fingering the warm coat before pulling it farther up her arms. That was the second time he mentioned forgetting, wasn't it? Was he afraid that she'd forget him? Or… she rubbed the soft inner lining between her fingers. Wasn't that why she was leaving, though? To forget how she felt about him? So in a sense he had a right to be afraid, didn't he?

The journey was over faster than she thought, and he was paying the toll and pulling onto one of the docks. He picked up her bag, put the keys in his pocket, and with an order for Constantine to 'stay' he reached down to help her up. She folded the coat neatly and put it in the seat before allowing him to grasp her hand. For a moment, she was falling off a crane and he was yanking her up with a laugh, but then it was just him silently pulling her onto the docks and letting go all too fast. She motioned for her bag and he politely handed it over before turning and pointing up the docks.

"I'll walk you to the bus stop."

"I'll tell Mr. Cantabella that you did, so you won't be thrown to the fire," she teased. He chuckled, but this time it wasn't her imagination—there was no real laughter in it. The sound fell flat between them, and she gnawed at her lip, following him as they dodged curious fishermen and yacht owners. When they reached the crosswalk she saw the bus stop illuminated by a neon sign, the bus schedule lit from within by fluorescent lighting. The walk was abandoned, the only person at the stop a little old woman with a rather large nose and an odd hat.

The lump in her throat came back with a vengeance, choking her as she turned to face him. His hair glinted all shades of red in the rising sun, from copper to amber to crimson and back again. It cast his face in half shadow, the long scar rising from his brow standing out in contrast. This was goodbye, but she wasn't sure if she could go through with it. There was still time to turn back, to say that she wanted to go home and make him take her; at the same time it would be foolish to go back, after all this prepping and planning.

"So, Miss Eve." He swallowed hard, shoving his hands in his pockets as he looked across the walk to the shimmering sea. "I've never really said good-bye to someone I've known as long as you." He toed the ground. "I'm not quite sure how to say it, even now."

"You just say what's in your heart. Whatever you like, I mean," she amended, blushing at how cheesy it sounded when said aloud. She cleared her throat, throwing out her hand. "Sometimes, the common way is also the best. Good bye, Zacharias Barnham. Thank you again for the photo. I'll treasure it." She kept it calm, casual, amicable and even. She was proud of herself.

"What's in my heart?" He was staring down at her hand with an unfathomable expression. He reached out and shook it, but when she made to let go his fingers tightened. "If it's that, then I would say: _don't go_."

"Don't… go?" As she watched, he brought her hand to his face. She thought he meant to kiss her knuckles in a gentlemanly way, but his lips paused on the back of her hand and he nearly threw it from him, turning away from her and running both hands through his hair. "Zacharias?"

"I promised myself I wouldn't do this," he growled, stomping away from her and coming back after three steps. She looked around quickly, but there was no one to notice his outburst. The fishermen were too far away, the weird woman at the bus stop too focused on her knitting. "Forget it, Miss Eve. Forget what I just said," he ordered.

"Why?" He turned himself away again, his movements violent. She stood, feet locked in place and hand clutching her bag for dear life. What on earth had come over him?

"I just want you to be happy," he explained tersely, yanking on his hair and loosening his tie. "and if you're happy in London, then I can be happy that you're happy but—I'm _not_ , no matter how much I try to tell myself that I am!" His hands fell to his sides, head drooping and shoulders slumping. "Damnit." He kicked at a loose piece of gravel on the crosswalk. "I meant to let you go without telling you any of this, but I just can't do it. I can't." His shoulders gave a little shake and she thought he was crying, but when she crept forward to his side his face was dry.

"Zacharias…" he pulled his hand away when she reached for it.

"I thought if I just didn't say anything to you, I could let you go. But now I've just wasted the last two weeks I had with you."

"I'll be back in six months," she whispered, unsure of why she felt the need to keep her voice down. There was still no one around to hear them.

"Six months is a long time." He looked to the sea, blinking rapidly as the light glinted into his eyes from the water. "I overheard Mrs. Eclaire and the Story—Mr. Cantabella talking. He said if you liked it in London, you could stay and be the CEO for as long as you liked. And that if the time came, he wouldn't make you come back if you didn't want to. I—We might not ever see you again."

"I'll come back," she declared, trying to make him look down at her and see the earnestness in her face. "I will."

"You won't. You'll be busy with work, and find new friends and probably a boyfriend, and then you'll want to stay here, with him, instead of coming home to m—to us." He finally faced her, and she was so taken aback at the anguish in his eyes that she lost whatever she meant to say. Taking her silence for acceptance, he continued. "And if that is what will make you happy, then I thought I could be happy too. Because you were happy to be going, when you didn't seem to be before." She couldn't tell him that _he_ was the reason she had been depressed, but as the pieces clicked into place her brain began to work in overdrive.

"There won't be a boyfriend, and I'll never be too busy with work to come go on holiday back home." He shook his head and she grabbed his hand, holding it tightly. He tried to pull it away and she put both her hands around his, forcing him to remain still. The tension in his fingers, the strain against her own—she stared down at them, calluses, grime and all, and wondered how she ever hated them. "There _won't_ _be_ a boyfriend," she repeated firmly, stepping closer to him.

"Miss Eve."

"If I have to promise it, I will: On the Story, On the Fire, on the Storyteller's head." She looked up at him expectantly.

"If ever I'm unfaithful, may the witches strike me dead," he finished hoarsely, reciting the old primary school adage. "Miss Eve?" There was a hope in his eyes, one that she still felt deep within her. Even now, she could hardly understand what was happening, and knew that she'd have to be on the bus, dissecting every word, before she could fully comprehend what they were doing.

She bent her head and pressed her lips against his fingers, hearing his sharp intake of breath. With strength she didn't know he possessed, he wrenched his fingers from her and she was taught in an embrace so tight she could hardly breathe. She didn't care, her own arms straining to hold him closer as she gasped with mingled surprise and delight against his chest.

"Miss Eve?" he repeated, his voice an even raspier whisper than before. She wiggled her way up until her chin was on his shoulder, her toes barely touching the ground.

"Why 'Miss'?" she asked breathlessly, smoothing out the fistfuls of his shirt before grabbing more. "I'm Eve, Zacharias. _Eve_." A tremor went through him and he pulled away, tentatively brushing her cheek with his knuckles before cupping her jaw. She rested her forehead against his, wondering what any of the fishermen below might be thinking if they were to look up to the crosswalk. She found that she didn't even care.

"Promise me you'll come back."

"A thousand times over, I promise."

"And you'll write to me."

"Every week, if you want me to." She closed her eyes. "Six months isn't so long, if you count them by letters. Only twenty-four." He moved and she opened them again to see him close, so close, her heart pattering wildly against her ribs. She swallowed, but they looked at each other and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. It wouldn't be fair to have just one, and then go six months without another when they could wait until she got back.

"There's your bus," he sighed. She looked to see he was right.

"You'll be waiting for me here in six months." She glared at him in her best Darklaw manner. "You better be waiting."

"I'll beat anyone who tries to beat me to the boat, even if its Espella." She laughed, squeezing his fingers once more before letting go. His hands went back in his pockets, as if he were afraid to let them stay out a moment longer.

"Take care of them for me," she ordered. "All of them."

"I will." He nodded. "Go, or you'll miss the bus." She looked at him one last time and then it hit her: fairness be damned. She rushed back, pressing her lips to his fleetingly enough that he was able to let out a grunt of shock, but not grab her. By the time he realized what had happened, she was already up the stairs and onto the bus, handing over her ticket from her bag and sitting in the only available seat, beside the knitting woman. She waved to him from the window, biting back a laugh as his hand covered his mouth.

"Ah, it's always hard when parting young lovers," the old woman said, her hat nodding back and forth as she knitted. Eve blushed and sat down quickly, stowing her bag under the seat as confusion swept over her. Maybe the old woman was watching after all…. She still didn't care; there was a giddy excitement that she hadn't felt as a child, and she knew she would need at least three hours to properly go over, in private, what had transpired. But right now, he felt—she felt—they were—they could!

"Are you two engaged?" the woman asked nosily, little eyes sweeping over her hands for some sign of a ring. Eve shook her head quickly.

"No, we're just—" she caught herself, not quite sure _what_ they were. "I've got to leave home for six months for work, and he came to see me off. I didn't realize he wouldn't want me to go."

"Oh, men have that certain way about them. You just have to know how to look. But that one looks as if he wears his heart on his sleeve," she cackled.

"He does," she agreed. "It's just that I don't always look on the right one." The old woman cackled again.

"Work, eh?" she said, leaning back in her chair. "I'm coming home, myself. I've been on holiday with my granddaughter watching my place for me, but now it's time to come back to her. I'm knitting this shawl for her." She looked over at Eve with a keen eye. "Tell me, child: do you like puzzles?"

"Well—"

* * *

 **Afterword:** Cheap angst, happy ending, 15,000 words of Eve being emotionally unstable and in denial. I don't even know if you can really call this angst or not, but I think you can. Maybe. Anyway, hope you enjoyed. Send me nice reviews or maybe a nice meme in the mail. I don't get enough letters.


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